Golden Serpent
by WitchyWoman1030
Summary: The kids are in their sixth year; Harry is mysteriously drawn to the new girl at school. As he starts to connect with her, he realizes she is not all that she seems. PG-13 because there is a bit of slash later. Enjoy!
1. Chocolatey Ron

**Disclaimer: Aaack I hate disclaimers. I don't own Harry Potter blah blah Morgan is my own character from my own twisted mind blah blah JK, very sadly, owns HP and I don't, but if Daniel Radcliffe goes up on Ebay, let me know.**

**Btw, props to Staci who beta'd this for me and came up with hilarious title suggestions, though I didn't use them. And she figured out the allusion of Morgan's name :)**

Glittering lights dancing on the walls. Silver confetti all over everything. The floor spelled to make foggy mist drift up through the cracks in the cobblestones. A pulsing beat that thumped through your chest and made your heart seem to dance in time with the music.

A school dance at Hogwarts.

Harry's worst nightmare.

_Five weeks earlier:_

"Ron, who is she?"

Ron looked up from his Honeydukes chocolate, smeared all over his fingers and now staining his untouched homework. "Who?" he asked Harry innocently.

"You know who!" Harry retorted. "The new sixth year. The girl who was put in Gryffindor earlier this week."

Ron smiled teasingly. "Well, she lives in this tower. Why don't you ask her?" But responding to Harry's death glare, he added, "All right, her name is Morgan Faye; according to rumor, she's an orphan who was sent here by her spinster Muggle aunt who was ashamed to have her witch niece seen in the neighborhood. Sound kind of familiar? She comes here from America." This last remark he said with a suggestive grin, as if to say, _you know what they say about American girls._ "Why are you so anxious to know about her anyway?"

Harry sighed, not wanting to admit the real reason. "Well, you know…just curious is all," he lied, avoiding the knowing look on Ron's face that saw right through him. He didn't add that there was something about the way she had looked at him across the Potions classroom on her first day, a look that had twisted his stomach in knots. She had stared right through him, no, _into_ him, stripping him down to his bones. He had been overcome with a strange fear: she could see his soul, his secrets. She looked at him like she had known him for ages…Harry shook off the disconcerting memory. It was ridiculous. He had never seen her before in his life; she had just moved there from another continent.

"Paranoid," he whispered to himself. "You're just paranoid."

"What did you say?" Ron asked, his chocolate now all over his mouth and chin.

"Nothing," Harry said. "Wash your face. I'm going to bed." And with that he strode up the stairs to the dormitory, leaving Ron glaring questioningly after him.

**I know it's short but keep going it gets better!**


	2. Liquid Dreams

**Author's note: By the way, props to Staci (Feerique-Freak) who beta'd this for me and gave some hilarious title suggestions, though I didn't use them. Love ya!**

Harry walked into Potions class with the Slytherins and Gryffindors the next day, weary from a restless night. His dreams had disturbed his sleep all through the night. _She_ had pervaded his dreams, Morgan, coming to him dressed in white, golden snakes surrounding her arms, like…like a witch. But from a different time. A different life.

He snuck a glance at her across the classroom. Her beautiful russet skin glistened with sweat from the oppressive autumn heat. Her thick, wild hair fell and hid her face from view. She wasn't looking at him now, now when he called to her with his gaze. He sighed. What was happening to him?

Professor Snape walked into the classroom and strutted across the aisle to the front of the room, looking particularly sour today.

"No talking," he barked, though all conversation had ceased as soon as he'd entered the room. "Today we will be focusing on the Norahlea potion. Who can tell me its function?"

Hermione, of course, raised her hand immediately. Harry couldn't figure out why she was so eager to please him; he never appreciated her answers anyway. He glanced at Morgan again. She was smiling amusedly at Hermione. Harry didn't know whether she was smirking at Hermione's tendency to show off or if she truly admired her enthusiasm for sharing knowledge. It didn't seem like a derisive grin.

"Yes, Miss Granger, I _know_ you know," Snape said with weary spitefulness. "Does anyone else know the function of the Norahlea potion?"

Everyone glanced at each other awkwardly but no one answered.

"Of course you don't," Snape said. "The Norahlea potion is a hallucinogenic substance of sorts. When ingested, the potion will make the drinker dream whatever the brewer of the potion wants him to dream, or make him see illusions when he's awake."

Harry thought of Morgan there in front of him, the Morgan in white with serpent bracelets. Was it him, or did she look at Harry specifically when Snape had mentioned the inducement of dreams?

"The brewer may also induce dreams or illusions on himself by drinking it," Snape went on. "Now, you all have the ingredients and instructions in front of you. I will be coming around to check on your progress."

It was a very difficult potion; not only did you have to mix the ingredients just right, as with every potion, but when you were done, you had to state or think very clearly of what you wanted the drinker to see or dream. Then you were supposed to see the images swirling in the potion as it was boiling. Hermione coached Harry and Ron through the spell process.

"Longbottom," they heard suddenly from Snape, his voice dripping with condescension, "I see nothing but swirling mist in your potion, and it's supposed to be steaming and boiling, not bubbling over."

Neville, now sixteen but still as terrified of Snape as ever, bowed his head in embarrassment and stammered, "Y-yes sir, Pro-Professor Snape."

"Ten points from Gryffindor, and you will stay after class until you get it right, if it is indeed possible for you to get anything right, Longbottom."

"Well, maybe, if you would bother to help him a little, he would get it right," said a cold voice across the room to Harry's right. To his and everybody's shock, it had come from Morgan.

Snape's head snapped up, pinpointing the source of the voice. "Do you have something you'd like to say, Miss Faye?" he said, his eyes narrowed. "Do you think you can teach this class better than I can?"

Morgan met his callous stare unflinchingly. "I would do better than to simply harass him," she replied, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "At least he wouldn't be terrified to ask for help."

Snape's eyes flicked down at her boiling Norahlea potion. "I don't see any images in your potion. Clearly you don't know how to follow instructions either."

"I followed them precisely," she retorted. "There must be something wrong with your instructions."

Snape's lip curled up in a sneer. "Ten more points from Gryffindor for your insolence," he said. "And if you don't like the way I teach my class, you may leave."

Everyone held their breath, including Harry, waiting to see what she would do. Without breaking eye contact with Snape, she calmly rose from her seat, gathered her supplies and strode out of the room. Before she closed the door behind her, she turned around and said, "You know, I'm sure Headmaster Dumbledore would be very disappointed to know that one of his teachers singles out his students. How interesting that you never harass any of your own house." Before Snape could reply, she was gone.

Snape looked around at all the wide-eyed sixth years in the room, as if daring them to say one word about what had just happened. "Continue with your work," he ordered. After a moment's thought, he stalked out of the room after her.

Hermione quickly leaned over and whispered to Harry and Ron, "He did leave something out." She pointed at the open Potions book on her desk. "It takes at least ten minutes for the images to appear on the surface of the Potion."

Snape reappeared in the doorway a second later. Looked like he hadn't caught up with her after all, for a look of raging frustration further contorted his already harsh, unattractive features.

The last twenty minutes of class went on in total yet unsettled silence. As soon as class was dismissed, everyone began chattering about the extraordinary events of class, and of Morgan's very brave, or very foolish, behavior. Especially Neville, who expressed gratitude and dismay that Morgan Faye, who barely knew him, had defended him against the most sadistic teacher in Hogwarts. Malfoy left making a crack about dirty Americans, strutting around like they own the place.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione simply looked at each other in total disbelief, Ron with admiration, Hermione with slight disapproval. Harry himself didn't know what to think of this strange girl who permeated his dreams and had probably just gained the respect of the whole class, the Gryffindors, anyway.

Before leaving the room, Harry peered into Morgan's abandoned cauldron. Indistinct images swirled on the surface of the brew. Harry looked closer, squinting. He saw Morgan, and then he saw himself, Morgan reaching toward him, beckoning to his form on the smooth liquid. Then the swirling image faded.

"Harry, you coming?"

Harry looked up, startled. Hermione and Ron waited for him at the door, their expressions full of concern. "Yeah, yeah I'm coming," and with that he followed them out the door.

**So what'd you think? I need 2 people besides Staci to R&R before I post another chapter. Love, Elf**


	3. Two Alike

**AN: Props to Staci, always, for being a wonderful beta reader and reviewer, oh, and for the SF&DT idea, you'll see what I mean. WARNING: There is slash in this chapter, as per Staci's request. There. You've been warned. Enjoy!**

That weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend, but Harry decided to stay behind and catch up with his homework. It was now Sunday night, and he had done all of it, including Snape's mind-numbing essay on the Norahlea Potion, so he settled into a plush chair alone in the Gryffindor common room, enjoying the peace and quiet. The fireplace blazed with a pleasant, familiar crackling, and he allowed himself to zone out staring at the fire, the brightness of the intense heat burning in the back of his eyes.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Harry startled at the soft, silky voice and whirled around in his chair to find Morgan next to him. Oh, god. He found his tongue temporarily paralyzed as he noticed how a few stray black curls fell in front of her face, or the way her blue eyes the color of a clear mountain lake startlingly contrasted her dark skin.

Talk, Potter! "Ah…" he managed to squeak out. He wasn't sure what seat she was referring to, so he just said, "No, not at all."

Instead of sitting on the couch like he'd expected her to, she pulled the footstool of the chair he was sitting on closer to her and sat down facing him. The firelight against her in the background gave her hair a kind of eerie halo, setting her curls alight like black flames.

Surprisingly, Harry found himself making the first move. "I haven't seen you since your little show of valor in Snape's class on Friday."

She laughed and tossed her head like an Arabian mare. "Yeah, well, I've been around. Mostly hiding out."

"I shouldn't wonder. Everyone's been talking about you, you know."

"Oh, hell," she mused and laughed again. "I did kind of cause a scene, didn't I? I just couldn't stand just sitting there and watching him harass Neville. Poor guy's terrified of him. I assume it wasn't the first time?"

Harry shook his head. "We're used to it by now. So where'd you go? That was quite a threat you made before you left."

"I went to Dumbledore, like I said I would. I ranted and raved for several minutes before Dumbledore stopped me and told me that there were things I didn't know about Professor Snape and that I should, quote, 'bear him with patience.'"

Harry smiled sympathetically. "That's just Dumbledore for you, I'm afraid. He trusts Snape; never mind that he's the most insufferable man in the world."

Morgan was just about to reply when someone, two someone's actually, stumbled through the portrait, clinging to each other, helpless with laughter.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan. Harry's two favorite sluts.

"Did you see the look on his face, darling?" Dean asked Seamus, wiping away tears of mirth.

"What are you two on about?" Harry asked sternly, though there was a note of affection in his tone. "What did you do this time?"

When Seamus had gained control of himself, he said, "We sent a passionate love letter to Draco Malfoy from none other than his crony, Crabbe. The letter even requested a threesome with Goyle!" He lost his composure again and doubled over with giggles.

"You should've seen it, Harry love!" Dean exhorted. "He walked right over and punched Crabbe right in the sucker! Ah, Fred and George Weasley would have been proud to see it."

Harry, trying not to crack a smile, said, "Now that was just cruel, boys."

"And completely brilliant!" Dean exclaimed, ignoring Harry's halfhearted reproach. To Seamus he said, "You were genius, my love."

"No, you were genius," Seamus replied in adoration. "Come here, you."

He threaded his fingers through Dean's hair and pulled him close, and the two boys proceeded to kiss passionately, Dean wrapping his arms around Seamus's waist.

Harry, used to these displays by now, glanced at Morgan worriedly, but she just raised her eyebrow at him playfully, a twinkle of laughter in her eyes, as if she were trying hard to hold it back.

Seamus and Dean pulled apart, but keeping his arm around Dean's waist Seamus said, "We're turning in, Harry love. See you in the morning. Oh, and by the way, Morgan, we extend our congratulations on making Snape look like a total prat in front of his own class; you're probably the first in many Hogwarts generations to do so. You're an inspiration."

Morgan gave a sardonic laugh. "Thanks. I suppose I'll have to get used to being notorious."

"All right, guys," Harry said, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Are you kidding?" Seamus snorted. "I can't keep this handsome morsel's hands off me. Besides, what do you care? You're straight."

"Unfortunately," Dean added.

"Yes, unfortunately," Seamus agreed. Then, as they headed up the stairs, he suddenly objected, "Hey! What did you mean by that?"

Harry laughed, though he couldn't hear Dean's reply as they had already reached the dormitory. Turning to Morgan, he said apologetically, "I'm sorry if that bothers you. They've been together since last year, and they're always like that. You don't seem to mind all that much, though."

Morgan shook her head. "No. They're open. I like people who aren't afraid to be who they are."

Harry wanted to ask her more about what she liked, but he refrained himself. "Is that the way people are in America?" he asked slyly.

Morgan sighed. "Not really. People are always trying to hide themselves. Human nature, I suppose."

Harry wondered whom she was referring to exactly, or if there were things she hid about herself. "It must've been really hard, being sent away like that to a whole different country, a different magic school."

Morgan just smiled thoughtfully. "No, actually. This is where I belong, where my life essentially began. My mother went to this school, you know."

Harry frowned. "I thought your mother was American."

"She was, a full-blooded Native American, to be exact," she conceded. "She learned basic earth magic from my grandfather as a little girl; then they sent her to Hogwarts. Thought she would make a better life for herself here than on the reservation, I suppose. After she graduated, she met a nice Irish boy with blue eyes. They moved back to the U.S. together and, well, here I am."

"That must be where you get your eyes," Harry noted softly. "From your father."

"Yep. Everything else is my mother Cheyenne's," Morgan affirmed. "Except for my father's Irish temper, of course," she added with a chuckle.

That sounded eerily familiar. Harry recalled how everyone described him as having his father's rugged, disheveled looks, except for his eyes, which he inherited from his mother, Lily. He knew he shouldn't ask his next question, but he couldn't stop himself. "What happened to them?"

Her eyes immediately clouded over, and he wished he hadn't asked. "No one knows," she answered to his surprise. "One night, when I was eight, they packed up, took me to Aunt Josephine's, and kissed me goodbye; then they left and…never came back."

Harry swallowed hard. It was horrible, but at least he knew what had happened to his parents; she didn't even know whether hers were alive or dead. He felt he had to reach out to her, to let her know he understood. "My parents were murdered when I was a baby," he admitted, finding it hard to confide this to someone intimately, though there wasn't a wizard or witch in Britain who didn't know it. "My mother died trying to save my life."

Morgan looked straight into his eyes. "I know," she said, her voice becoming a whisper. "Everyone talks about it. You're the boy who lived. But it's more than that; I could sense it. You have this incredible loneliness in your eyes. I think," she went on hesitantly, "that we are two alike souls, you and I."

Harry found himself unable to look away. That strange feeling had come over him again, like she could see through his eyes, through his skin, down to the marrow of his bones, into his soul. Except this time, he wanted her to see, for he felt he was seeing her as well: her own loneliness, her need for connection, all her fragile beauty and strength. He wanted to heal those sharp crags of pain in her eyes, to take her face in his hands and kiss her forehead and tell her it was ok, she wasn't alone.

Before he gave in to this strange impulse, she smiled that thoughtful smile again. "All I have left are the magic pictures of them. There's this one, it's my favorite, of my mom and her best friend from when they went to school here. Both of them are young and smiling, so happy, not a care in the world. My mom's best friend is kissing her on the cheek; you can tell they were really close. Beautiful lady, too, I don't even know her name. She had this fiery red hair, and these bright green eyes…"

Green eyes, Harry thought, an extraordinary realization slowly coming over him the way a giant wave hovers ten feet in the air before crashing to shore. No. No, it couldn't be…

Morgan had trailed off, and she cocked her head, looking at Harry more intently as if his eyes had suddenly become more familiar to her. "A lot like yours, actually…"

Harry felt the floor under his feet spinning away from him, and he had to catch his breath. Could it be? Was it possible?

Before he could say anything, the moment was broken as the portrait opened and a dozen or so students trailed into the common room, among them Ron and Hermione. Coming back from Hogsmeade. Oh, damn, he'd forgotten.

Ron and Hermione walked up to Harry. Hermione noticed the way Morgan was leaning close to Harry and the odd, wide-eyed look on his face. "Were we interrupting something?" she asked suspiciously.

Harry seemed to snap out of his stupor. "No! No, not at all. We were just discussing the priceless look on Snape's face when Morgan walked out of his class on Friday."

Morgan glanced at Harry when he said that, and Hermione wondered if that was all they were talking about. Ron, not seeming to notice, tossed Harry a box of Honeydukes chocolate. "Brought this back for you, mate. I was going to tell you how bloody brilliant that was of you, Morgan. Nobody's ever had the guts it took to do that. He'll hate you for the rest of the year, of course…but it was well worth it!"

Morgan chuckled at him. "Yes, so people have said."

Harry stood up. "I'm going to go to bed. Thanks for the chocolate, Ron."

Morgan stood up as well. Now that they weren't sitting, Harry noticed how diminutive a girl she was, for having such a strong presence in the room. She was a full head shorter than him, but the straight, upright way she held herself gave her an aura of confidence, almost intimidation. She looked right into his eyes again as she said, "Goodnight, Harry."

After saying goodnight to his two best friends he staggered up the stairs into the dormitory. Stripping off just his shirt, he fell into bed with his pants on, not even bothering to close the canopy curtain. The full moonlight shimmered over his lean body as he fell asleep with visions of dancing flames and golden serpents in his head.


	4. Blood and Roses

**AN: Don't own, don't own, don't own, though I rather enjoy making these characters do whatever I want. (evil grin) Hope you're enjoying, even though nobody else is reviewing L Thanks again to Staci for reading this when no one else is.**

The days had grown cooler as September faded into October, trees shuddering off burgundy and gold leaves like a second skin. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and lifted her head, enjoying the caress of the wind on her face and listening to it whisper sweet secrets in her ears. Then she opened her eyes, and looking down at the tiny rosebud in her hand, she sighed.

Madame Sprout was usually in charge of caring for all the plants and flowers around the school grounds, keeping the flowers blooming year-round with perennial spells. However, her energy was needed at the moment for the growing of the Mandrakes for her class of second years. Since Hermione had enjoyed Herbology so much, the professor had entrusted the rosebushes to her care. But these buds were stubborn; they refused to bloom despite all the care, magical or material, that she had given them.

"Come on, little bud," she whispered to it gently, as if coaxing it into opening, "you can do it."

****

But the tiny pink bud wouldn't listen, as reluctant as a newborn leaving the warm comfort of the womb. She leaned over and stared ponderingly at it for several seconds, as though if she stared long enough, it would open on its own. She groaned in bafflement and frustration, feeling as if she had failed Professor Sprout somehow.

Then she heard the soft fall of footsteps on the grass behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find Morgan coming toward her.

"You look like you could use some help," Morgan offered.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Morgan's tone friendly enough, but Hermione couldn't help being suspicious after walking in on her strange conversation with Harry that night, the details of which Harry had kept hidden from her when she asked about it the next morning.

Morgan must have noticed her antagonistic expression, for she took a step back. "If you're busy, I understand…"

Hermione's eyes immediately softened. Damn. She hadn't meant to run her off. "It's allright," she said quickly. Turning her attention back to the rosebush, she said apologetically, "I didn't mean to be such a bitch. It's just that these stupid roses refuse to bloom, no matter what I do."

She felt dark, soft hair brush against her cheek as Morgan peered over her shoulder. A shiver played its way up her spine like creeping fingers, not from uneasiness, though from what emotion she couldn't identify. She leaned back to give Morgan a better view, or maybe to escape the sensation of Morgan being that close to her.

Morgan pulled out her wand and gestured toward the rose. "May I?" she asked.

Hermione had no idea what she was going to do, but she shrugged acquiescently. "Go ahead, if you think you can. I've tried everything else."

Holding the base of the bud with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, Morgan pointed at the pink bundle of petals with her wand in the other hand. "_Rosa blomeum_," she murmured, and Hermione felt a rush of energy pouring from Morgan into the fragile flower. A golden, glowing light surrounded it, and, to Hermione's astonishment, the petals began to open one by one, blooming out over Morgan's palm, sparkles of magic dancing out over the petals. Morgan lowered her wand and beamed satisfactorily.

"How did you do that?" Hermione demanded, though a note of awe was woven into her voice.

Morgan just smiled again at her, a teasing, inscrutable shine in her eyes. "You're not the only one with a trick up her sleeve," she said simply, mysteriously.

Despite herself, Hermione found that she was smiling, also. "For all my magical knowledge, I still haven't learned anything like that. Now I feel kind of inferior."

Alarm in her eyes, Morgan put her hand on Hermione's shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Don't be," she said comfortingly. "I envy your ability as a witch. This is something I learned from my grandfather, and he was very powerful in the area of High Earth magic. It took me months to learn to do this."

"You learned magic from your grandfather?" Hermione asked incredulously. "Before you went to school?"

"Before and during the summers when I visited the reservation from my magic school in Massachusetts," Morgan replied. "They don't have the same regulations of underage magic in America, especially for those on the reservation, under the guide of a Shaman."

Fingering the newly bloomed velvet petals, she astonished Hermione again by touching her wand to them and changing their pink color to red, crimson blossoming across the petals like blood from a chest wound. "Blood red roses are so striking, aren't they?" she mused more to herself than to Hermione. "The spell's really quite easy once you know it; you just have to learn to connect with the bud, coax it out of hiding, learn its secrets."

Something in that sentence made Hermione think of Harry's strange expression in the common room, and whatever secret or revelation he had shared with Morgan. "You mean like you did with Harry?" she said before she could hinder herself with discretion.

Morgan looked up at her from the transformed rose, and Hermione felt a rush of shame, sending a blush as pink as the roses to her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she quickly apologized. "I don't know why I said that."

But Morgan just smiled graciously. "You are very protective of Harry, aren't you? And of Ron, for that matter."

Hermione nodded sheepishly. "I guess I'm not used to trusting other girls. I love those boys. We've been through so much together since we were eleven. I've never really bonded with a girl."

Morgan bobbed her head understandingly. "Well, it's not too late. Maybe today's the day to start." She clasped Hermione's hand reassuringly, the warm touch of her fingers spreading up through Hermione's arm. Harry was right; she did have this inexplicable effect on those around her.

Suddenly, something very strange happened. The scarlet rose, standing out among the pinks like a gold Galleon among tarnished Sickles, began to wither rapidly, its delicate petals crisping and turning a sickly wheat-yellow color as it died before their very eyes. Hermione gave a horrified cry as both girls watched, helpless, as the others began to wilt, too, until half the buds on the bush were dying.

They heard a scornful laugh behind them and whirled around to find Draco Malfoy standing with his wand pointed at the rosebush, that hateful snicker pouring from his mouth like bitter drops of acid rain.

Recovering from her initial shock, Morgan felt a fire of rage swell up in her like liquid magma rising to the surface. She snatched her wand from her pocket and stomped over to him, jabbing her wand in his Adam's apple. "I'll have your head for that, boy!" she raged, with every intention of following her word.

Hermione came up behind her, holding up her wand toward him as well, other fist clenched as if poised to punch. Tears of anger welled up and stung her eyes, but she blinked them back.

Noticing Hermione's unspent tears, which she was trying hard to hide, he smirked in a way that made Morgan want to smack it right off his pretty face. "What, you lesbos can't take a joke? It was just a few stupid flowers."

Hermione gave a furious, bear-like growl, but Morgan, now beyond anger, was merely astounded at this blonde-haired boy's blatant disregard and irreverence for life. She had never before witnessed this kind of flagrant enjoyment in destruction. She knew his wealthy father was a suspected Dark Wizard from reputation. The boy had obviously been raised to be the same, the way that people, especially other Death Eaters, expected him to be.

Suddenly, she felt a smooth hand on her shoulder, then another on her wrist, gently forcing her wand down and away from Malfoy. She turned her head to see Ron standing next to her. "Come on, Morgan," he murmured next to her ear. "Trust me, he's not worth getting in trouble over." Motioning for Hermione to put her wand down, too, he added, a little louder, "He'll get enough detention from Sprout for destruction of school property."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed; he knew what Ron was saying was true. But not one to admit defeat, he taunted Morgan as Ron started to lead her away, "Yeah, good thing the Weasel was here to stop you, eh, new girl? Too bad your totem pole-worshipping mother isn't here to teach you to behave properly."

In response, Morgan turned around and spat at Malfoy's feet. "If you're so desperate for attention, Malfoy, why don't you go suck up to your rich daddy? Since you're obviously so desperate for his approval."

To her sick satisfaction, she detected a brief, almost-invisible flicker in his eyes, before the façade of smugness replaced it once again. She had hurt him, and she knew it. Ron and Hermione knew it too, for they were silent, watching. She pressed on, unable to stop herself.

"Oh, did I hit a soft spot?" she said in a melodious, mocking tone. "Did your daddy ignore you as a child? Did he beat you when you were nice to Muggles? Or is being an arrogant whelp in the genes?"

Malfoy scowled hideously and swelled with anger. "You'll pay for that, filthy Redskin," he said menacingly.

Morgan grinned a humorless, taunting grin. "I look forward to seeing you try, _paleface_," she shot back, ridiculing his use of the archaic, derogatory name he'd called her.

Ron grasped her arm more firmly and led her away as Malfoy signaled to his posse and they strutted off in a huff. "I told you it wasn't worth it," he hissed at her. "He's just trying to provoke you into throwing the first punch…or the first curse, for that matter."

"And doing a pathetic job of it," she snapped, twisting her arm out of Ron's grip. "I wouldn't waste the energy for a curse on him."

Ron smirked. "Good. Glad to know you can keep your cool."

She opened her mouth for an angry retort, but when she realized he was teasing her, her tart reply melted into a laugh. "I guess I should thank you for stopping me. I can really lose it sometimes."

"Me, too. My temper's about as fiery as my hair," he joked. His tone turned serious, however, when he added, "But with Malfoy, I've had to learn to control it."

With sadness, Morgan pointed out the wilted roses to Ron. "But look at what he did, Ron. Hermione worked so hard to make them grow, and he just…killed them. Just like that."

With her attention turned back to the dead flowers, Hermione made a whimper of distress and seized the stem of the once-red rose as if she could bring it back to life with just a touch. "Ow!" she exclaimed as a hidden thorn tore through the sensitive skin of her thumb. Ron rushed over to her, and upon seeing the tiny prick, held the wounded hand in his and rubbed her back affectionately with the other.

"I'm sorry about the flowers, Hermione," he said, tenderly wiping away her tears of pain and disappointment. "You can grow more of them."

Morgan's watchful eyes lingered on them with interest for a moment. She knew Ron was Hermione's best friend, but as she saw him brush away her tears with his thumb and put his free arm around her, she wondered if there wasn't something more, if there hadn't been for a long time. Harry cared about Hermione very deeply, no doubt, but he didn't look at her the way Ron was looking at her now, like her pain belonged to him as well as he smoothed back her hair from her face.

After a moment longer, she walked over to them, and held out her hand. "Let me see your thumb," she instructed.

Looking at her questioningly, Hermione held out her own hand for Morgan to take and Morgan examined her thumb closely. The puncture was small but deep; she had pierced herself badly. A single, beady drop of blood welled up from the wound, deep red as the beautiful rose, so lovingly created, that Malfoy had so thoughtlessly destroyed. But no matter. It would be easy to heal.

Morgan held Hermione's thumb between her own thumb and forefinger like she did with the rosebud and held her other hand over it, murmuring some words in a language neither Ron nor Hermione understood. Then she brought Hermione's thumb to her lips and proceeded to suck on the blood, applying pressure to make more blood rush out. Hermione felt herself growing lightheaded, as if she were giving a pint at a Muggle blood drive. Ron just watched, eyes wide; Morgan's action, whatever it was she was trying to do, was almost… sensual. Erotic. He didn't know what to make of it.

Morgan lifted her head and repeated the incantation she had said before, the taste of Hermione's blood thick and copperish in her mouth. Before their eyes, the puncture wound shrunk until it became nothingness, leaving her skin as whole as it was before.

Hermione and Ron stared at her hand, then looked up at Morgan in amazement. "What…the bloody hell…was that?" Ron enunciated.

"It's a basic Shaman healing spell," Morgan explained. "The thorns have poison in them. It's just a visualization of sucking the hurt and poison out."

"Just how many things do you know that we don't?" Ron asked good-naturedly.

"It helps having a medicine man for a grandfather. I sort of inherited his talent for healing."

Still fingering her healed thumb as if she expected the wound to reappear, Hermione pointed out, "I better go tell Professor Sprout so she can come fix this. I hope Malfoy gets detention for a month."

"Bastard," Morgan muttered.

"Bastard," Ron agreed. With that they headed for the greenhouse, leaving the last trailing rays of sunshine and the cool October wind whispering after them.

****


End file.
